


Fifteen Messages

by juxtapose



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: But Slash if you squint, Gen, Mostly Platonic, Post Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-25
Updated: 2012-04-25
Packaged: 2017-11-04 08:02:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/391597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/juxtapose/pseuds/juxtapose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>15 messages. I've saved them all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fifteen Messages

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Here I am again! Not sure if anything like this has been done before but I thought I’d give it a go. Fun fact: Message 8 is a very large nod to the Conan Doyle story “The Three Garribeds” (1902). It is the only one of ACD’s works in which Holmes expresses real, unadulterated concern and emotion toward Watson. Also thanks to Danielle (everdeenfraypotter) for as always reading this over before I post!
> 
> DISCLAIMER: I don’t own SherlockBBC or the website “The Personal Blog of Dr. John H. Watson” which was created for the show’s purposes.

_****_

THE PERSONAL BLOG OF DR. JOHN H. WATSON

**28th August  
15 messages**

_15 messages._

_I’ve saved them all._

_Never had a clue how to work this damn mobile phone anyway. Made a habit of keeping voicemail messages until they started piling up._

_But I can’t delete these._

**3 Comments**

_I know it’s hard. But you have to let go, mate._  
 **Mike Stamford** 28th August 22:04

_Mike’s right. You’ll only make things worse for yourself, John. Please._  
 **Harry Watson** 28th August 22:52

_John, please call me._  
 **Ella Thompson** 28th August 23:19

* * * * * * *

Ella’s voice is patient as always as she says, “John, letting go is a big part of the grieving process, and it takes the longest to complete.”

John wants to tell her, _I’m not a fucking idiot, of course I know that_ , but instead he nods and gazes out the window to the ever-moving world around him. It’s funny how everything else just keeps going when you feel you’ve frozen completely.

“No one really ever moves on completely from losing someone. But the important thing is to start slow, to break away at a pace you think you can handle. I understand you’re already looking at new flats for a fresh start. That’s good, John.”

John still says nothing, until Ella speaks again: “I want you to work on something for me, John. The messages on your phone? Listen to them when you really need to. But I’d like for you to start doing something else, if you can: delete them. With each additional message you listen to, John, try to make it the last time.”

_I can’t. I can’t. I can’t. I can’t._ “They’re all I have left of him.” His voice doesn’t sound like his own. It hasn’t for two months.

“You and I both know that isn’t true,” Ella says softly, “You tell me all the time how he was your best friend, about all the things you did together. He lives on through you.”

John thinks that’s a load of bollocks.

“Now. Please try to do this, John. At whatever pace you need to. Let me know of your progress as you go along, okay?”

John leaves with a hand subconsciously clutching his mobile so tight that his knuckles pale.

* * * * * * *

John gets a job at the clinic again (even though he hates the way Sarah looks at him, like every move he makes causes her inexplicable sadness). He moves out of Baker Street. He goes to work every day, sometimes gets takeaway with Lestrade or Mike, even smiles occasionally.

He’s fine, except for when he isn’t.

He doesn’t really know how long he’s been staring at the compact little device on the table in front of him, but he guesses it’s been at least half an hour. Finally, John makes himself a drink, sits down on the couch, brings his mobile to his ear and dials:

**YOU HAVE FIFTEEN MESSAGES IN YOUR INBOX. MESSAGE ONE:**

_John._ He almost laughs. Never a “hello” or a “how are you”, just an annoyed exclamation of his name. _I wish you’d answer my texts; you know I abhor wasting time with phone calls. If you’re on a date with—Alyssa? Tara? Whichever woman has the eyes that are disproportionate to the rest of her face, tell her to catch a cab. We’ve got work to do. Details of the case have been texted to you. Meet you at home._

**WEDNESDAY, 1ST JUNE. END OF MESSAGE.**

John downs his drink. _Self-centered bastard_ he thinks. The message had been left fifteen days before Sherlock’s fall. He’d taken on little cases in between playing Moriarty’s big Game. Many messages were like this one. Abrupt, annoyed, but always requesting John’s help or just his presence.

The echo of Sherlock’s voice rings loud in John’s ears. _Meet you at home._ Bile rises up in his throat as he presses a button with a shaking hand, squeezing his eyes shut as the automated voice recites the four words he dreads hearing:

**MESSAGE HAS BEEN ERASED.**

He throws his phone across the room and goes to bed.

* * * * * * *

“How many messages have you deleted, John?”

“Four.”

“How did that go?”

_It was the worst thing I’ve ever done. It felt wrong. It felt disgusting. It felt like taking pieces of him and throwing them out into the cold where they can’t be found again._ “It went fine.”

* * * * * * *

It’s a Saturday night. Mike asked him out for a pint hours ago, but John had declined on the basis that he “has some things to do tonight.”

What Mike doesn’t know is these “things” basically entail John pouring himself a drink, sitting on the couch, and playing Message 8.

**YOU HAVE NINE MESSAGES IN YOUR INBOX. MESSAGE ONE:**

_John. Listen to me._ The memory of this message creeps up on John like a terrifying shadow—clear, crisp, and dark. February. _I’ve found out something about Garrideb—just spoke to Lestrade; Scotland Yard has never been so obviously incompetent—John, whatever you’re doing, turn around and come back to Baker Street now. Get a cab, do what you have to, but_ hurry _. Garrideb—no, James Winter is his name, and I believe he is armed in his home waiting for us. I—dammit. On second thought, stay there. You left approximately twenty-three minutes ago so I can estimate your whereabouts. I’ll come get you._

John remembers hearing this message just as one of Winter’s bullets grazed his leg from his spot in the bushes. He remembers shouting, and Sherlock’s voice, clear, shaking:

_“John, are you hurt? For God’s sake, say you’re not hurt!”_

It was that chilly day in February, beginning with that message, that John saw it, felt it as sure as the blood in his veins: that spark of humanity, seeping through the tough, complex exterior that was Sherlock Holmes. It was something John had never witnessed before, and thought that he never would again.

Until Sherlock jumped off St. Bart’s roof five months, two days and nine hours ago.

( _“That’s what people do, don’t they? Leave a note.”_ )

Ella had said, “You’re drowning in the memory of him, John,” but this doesn’t feel very much like drowning. The sound of Sherlock’s voice is John’s air.

**MESSAGE HAS BEEN ERASED.**

John goes back to silently drowning.

* * * * * * *

_**THE PERSONAL BLOG OF DR. JOHN H. WATSON**_

**6th November  
fine**

_i’m fine you all canstop woiryrng about me i am moving on_

_one left_

_just one_

* * * * * * *

John has made himself multiple drinks this chilly autumn night. He moves his laptop aside and fishes for his mobile in his pocket, holding it in a shaking hand.

This is it, John thinks, This is finally it.

He places the phone on the table, setting it to Speaker mode. He dials. He waits.

**YOU HAVE ONE MESSAGE IN YOUR INBOX. MESSAGE ONE:**

_John?_ It’s not assertive. It’s a question. It’s Sherlock Holmes and Uncertainty, two beings that rarely ever cross paths. _John, according to my calculations you’ve been gone for thirty-one hours and forty minutes. You are not replying to my texts. I am aware that . . ._ Pause. _I am aware that I caused you some distress yesterday afternoon. My remarks regarding your intellect and self-presentation were a bit out of line . . . You know how I get when I don’t have a case. The fact remains that . . ._ Longer pause. _I made a mistake. I called you idiotic, and you are far from it. Your mind may not be as . . . astute as mine, but it is one which I constantly strive to know more about. You’re not like the others, John. I said yesterday that you were foolish for your overwhelming sentiment and . . . I was wrong about that, as well. It is part of your . . . your . . ._ A frustrated sigh. _Everything made of matter, John, has a chemical makeup. Your sense of empathy, your intuitive knowledge of how people work both as a doctor and as a human being . . . These factors not only make up who you are, but they are also qualities of yours that are invaluable. Invaluable . . . to me.” Beat. "I hope you'll return soon."_

**FROM THURSDAY, 13th JANUARY. END OF MESSAGE.**

John gulps, his eyes and mind and body feeling inexplicably heavy for reasons beyond the alcohol in his veins. Even when Sherlock had been alive, John never wanted to delete this message. He closes his eyes, tilting his head back against the couch.

“I can’t do this anymore, Sherlock.” He speaks slowly to avoid the slur in his words. “I’m not a child, you know. I can handle myself. I can handle being . . .” He lifts a hand to his forehead, rubbing it wearily. “I can handle being without you. But everytime I think I’m doing all right, I hear your voice on this sodding thing--” He picks up the phone from its spot on the table. “—I fall back to where I started.”

Tears are pushing out from behind his eyelids, having waited many months now to be shed. John lets them fall. “You talked about chemical makeups. I feel like all I’m made up of lately is . . . is regret, and anger, and of the fact that you’re not coming back. I have to make a choice now. I need . . . I need to let go, Sherlock. Of you. I’m sorry.”

He holds his head high, the soldier in him rising to the surface as he holds the phone out in front of him. “Nothing I say now could ever explain . . . how I . . . I miss you, Sherlock. I always will. But I have to let go. Not just of you . . .” He pauses a moment, a look of quiet realization flashing across his face. “But of all of it. This life. I’ve got to start over. But I never got to say a proper goodbye to you.”

He squints at the tiny mobile screen and takes a deep breath. “Thank you. For being an insufferable, completely mad genius and for being my best friend.”

The combination of sweat, alcohol and tears makes him dizzy. But he holds his own, jabbing a finger into the scratched-up key he’s grown to hate.

**MESSAGE HAS BEEN ERASED. YOU HAVE NO NEW MESSAGES.**

“Goodbye, Sherlock Holmes.”  


* * * * * * *

On a particularly dark evening in Munich, a man sits alone in a hotel room, the blue of his eyes illuminated only by his laptop screen. He knows he shouldn't do this. But he can't help himself. Curiosity has gotten the best of him. He types an address into the search bar at the top of the screen.

[http:///www.johnwatsonblog.co.uk] [GO]

**_We’re sorry, but the page “The Personal Blog of Dr. John H. Watson” no longer exists._ **

Sherlock Holmes snaps his laptop closed, and if there is something akin to sadness on his worn face, no one will ever know. The darkness, a silent cloak, hides it away until morning’s light.


End file.
